Bethlehem 2024

"Great is the art of beginning, 

but greater is the art of ending."

Henry W. Longfellow

It always has a tinge of sadness, these last few rides before the end of the Tour de Mad Dog.  It also, however, makes me appreciate each and every rider in the tour, even those that I don't know well and have never really had a conversation with.   Somehow, even though I ride with very few of them anymore, anchored to slowness by age, I feel a closeness to them, a connection, a protectiveness, a desire to see them warm, happy, and well.  For we have shared something in getting our ten, in making the determination that we would be finishers:  hills, heat, rain, wind, comradeship, distance, laughter, hunger, and on and on.  How strange that an individual bond is also, somehow, a group bond.  Each wants the other to be successful.  Some think it just for the jersey, but as for me, I think it goes beyond the jersey somehow.  There is, in the end, a sense of completion, of fulfillment.  The words of Moliere come to mind: "It is a long road from conception to completion."  Yes, we have traveled many miles to get here.  At least one thousand.

I am delighted at the forecast.  It is so nice to have a ride and not have to worry if there will be rain or excessive wind and decisions to make about whether it will even be safe to have the ride. This particularly applies when one is captaining a ride.  It is one thing to be responsible for oneself.  It is another thing to be responsible for others.   Indeed, it turns out to be the best century riding weather we have had this year.  I start with arm warmers that I know I will soon discard as we roll into the cool of the morning.  I can say I am not unhappy that the last two stages are easier ones, if there is such a thing as an easy century. 

As we ride, I try to remember when I put this route together.  It was before RWGPS.  I remember it took three or four tries to poke through from Bethlehem to Hanover without hitting gravel.  I remember going back into the deserted power plant, Marble Hill, to try to find a road along the river that the paper map said existed but that I never found.  It was eerie back there, the large deserted building, a tribute to poor management, and my fear got the better of me.

I think how I miss those days, the days of exploration when I had more endurance, speed, and energy, but I know I am blessed to be out here.   The group of 18 divides quickly with the faster riders hammering the flat stretch into the first store stop following the climbs on Hebron Church Road.  The back group sees the front group at the first store stop and at lunch.  By the third store stop, they are so far in front that we do not catch them.  And I am fine with that.

For me, fall rides are to be savored not savagely devoured.  And it has always been this way for me. Despite the legs being strong from summer rides, it is time to slow down and to absorb the beauty of the ride for future recall when the winter comes, dull and gray, and the wind howls and keens outside my windows.   There is no need to hasten the end of the comfortable riding season.  Yes, you can stay warm in winter with the correct clothing, but it is just not the same as heading  out in shorts and a short sleeved jersey with  merely some arm warmers to knock off the morning chill. 

 

True, there is not much color yet, but despite the heat you can feel it in your bones, this change of seasons.  Some fields are harvested and some wait.  The soy bean fields always remind me of the stubble on a man's chin when he is on vacation and is not shaving.  I feel the sun caressing my skin, warm and comforting, and I try to let it soak into my very being knowing that soon I will shiver and cringe inside my warm clothing regretting all those times I bitched about the heat. The wind is there when you head into it, still gentle but telling me of what is to come, the increased effort, the slaps about the face. 

 

A couple of times we pull over to allow large farm machinery to pass.  Or at least most of pull over.  I feel a tinge of upset at those that don't.  These farmers are working.  We are playing.  And the importance of their work far exceeds the importance of ours.  The farms here are small.  Most of the farmers work other jobs.  The week-end is when they do their planting or harvest.  Some even use vacation days to sow and reap.  For some it is a job.  For others an act of love.  

This ride brings so many memories for me.  It was the ride I used to put on the first week of December.  We would ride and mail Christmas cards from Bethlehem.  It was the ride where it quite often rained and where the wind was usually from the west in our faces all the way back.  It was the ride where at the last store stop, I realized that even the strong riders were as tired as I was for while it is a rather easy century with only about 4,000 feet of climb, the west wind somehow makes it a difficult century.  To me, wind is more difficult than most hills, because you climb and crest a hill.  The wind remains.  It was the ride where my daughter had to ferry home three riders who were unable to finish one year, one of whom is on this ride and two that I have never seen before.  It was raining and cold that year and hypothermia was a real possibility.  The woman working the Subway gave us the plastic gloves they make sandwiches with to put under our gloves and cleaned up the large puddles we left on the floor.  But it is time to stop remembering and move on.

At lunch, John Pellgrino  and  Amelia Dauer produce coupons for Subway.  Steve Puckett goes to McDonalds but the rest of eat here:  Paul, Amelia, John, and Bob. Dominik has been with the front group but has decided to fall back with us so he has already eaten.  While I am not a Subway fan, the food is delicious when shared with friends and sauced with laughter and stories.

 

 The front group is getting to leave when we arrive.  I ask Amelia if she thinks Clothes Line, Glenn, will forget his backpack again.  She grins and says she had the same thought.  But I figure he had learned his lesson.  Jon Wineland stays behind to have a bit of a chat with us before taking off.  He and a couple others, Chris Quirey (who later tells me he only made one stop due to family obligations) and Vince Livingston ride as lone wolves.  While I often prefer riding alone over group riding, this is not one of the days, and the back group is unusually large for a stage as there are now, after the lunch stop, seven of us.  

No big events happen on the rest of the ride other than Bob Grable being kind enough to turn around and patronize a little girl who had set up a lemonade stand.  I think it shows a certain kindness that is part of his character that he does this.  I like this about Bob.  It makes me think of PBP and the children handing out drinks along the way.  Kindness in this world is greatly underrated. It should be encouraged and valued.  We wait for Bob at the last store stop and head out to finish the century.  Many today are getting their tenth in and I am happy for them.  Two, Steve Puckett and Dominick Wasserzug, need Medora.  For them, I hope it does not rain and force me to cancel.  The group splits in places, the demands of the short but steep climbs taking their toll, but those in the front wait for us, patiently and unasked.   I realize later that I never thank them for this for it is not to finish in a group of five for point purposes, but in the true spirit of the Mad Dogs where no dog is left behind.

Following the ride, five of us have pizza together:  Amelia, Paul, Jon, Dominick and myself.  There is laughter and stories and the justified satiation of hunger, for we have used our bodies today and they need replenishment.  Food is always much better when one is truly hungry, something I will sometimes forget in the upcoming boredom of the winter months when I spend much more time indoors and alone.  And there is an ending.  Not yet of the tour, but of the day.  Tonight I will sleep, something else my body needs.  Oh, yes, I am blessed.  19 years of completing the tour along with the two others who have done so:  Dave King and Mike Kamenish, neither of whom rode today.  Life is, indeed, good. 

The Adjective Century

"Rain is grace; rain

is the sky descending to the

earth; without rain, there

would be no life."

John Updike

 

I check a few times to see if the century is canceled due to the prediction for rain and possible storms, but it is not.  So I pack my things, double checking for rain gear, a rain cap and a waterproof phone case.  Then I head out.  I decide not to pack my rain jacket as the rain is not supposed to arrive until the afternoon and it should be hot by them.  I do pack a small, disposable poncho, something I try to carry during the summer when storms can pop up suddenly and without warning.    

 

Too well I remember a hot summer ride where the rain caught us on what was a sweltering day reducing us to a mob of shivering, miserable cyclists....at least until we bought and adorned ourselves in white, plastic garbage bags, tearing a hole for head and arms:  the time I joked about riding with white trash.  I think it was the first time, at least that I remember, where I was so cold my body shuddered in strong, involuntary contractions in an attempt to warm itself. To this day, I wonder why they make some trash bags white.  Seems rather an odd choice of colors for the task.  Like the time I wore a white dress on a first date and we went for barbecue ribs which I promptly spilled onto my lap. 

 

I like most of this century; however, I greatly dislike the unnecessary section on River Road.  River Road is a dangerous road with impatient motorists and no shoulder for a cyclist to move over.  But it is what it is and there is only three to four miles on it.  Still, considering it and the coming rain, I decide to ask the ride captain if I am able to start the ride early.  Sam says yes and so off I go leaving the others in the parking lot.  Steve Rice, Mark R., Dave King, and Steve Meredith catch me a bit down the road having left early as well.  

 

As I ride through neighborhoods, a solitary woman on a bike, I think how nice it is to leave early, before traffic has become too thick.  It is so peaceful.  I like riding in the morning while much of the world is sleeping or gathered around the table eating breakfast.  The neighborhoods are wrapped in quietness other than bird song and the occasional dog disturbed by my unexpected passage or an unidentified rustling in the bushes. Everything is lush and vibrant nurtured by the moistness and rain that has haunted this area recently and seems to show no sign of abating.  "One of those summers," I think. I am glad it was  not my decision to have or to cancel the ride today with summer being so unpredictable.  Summer flowers adorn green lawns in bright colors.  Even humid, hot, rainy summers have their benefits I suppose.

 

Despite the coolness of morning, it is obviously  humid.  Even with the flatness of the first part of the course, my skin begins to glow.   If only the moisture would sink in and revitalize my skin, I think.  I have never considered myself to be particularly vain, maybe because I know that while I am not ugly, I am not a beauty, but I dislike the coming of crepey skin.  Of course, cycling is hard on the skin.  And I  have done a lot of cycling.  A song reaches my lips despite those thoughts and I find my rhythm, the one I know that I can maintain for a hundred miles barring something unforeseen. 

 

Before they catch me, I think about where on the course I will probably be when the rain hits.  I speed my pedal stroke thinking to  minimize my chances of getting a good soaking.  I really don't mind rain, though, in the summer. I only truly mind the storms or torrential downpours that impact visibility and my ability to see and my ability to brake if needed or the downpours that leave you shivering cold to the point where even pedaling can't warm you.  Indeed, as I told a friend who rode yesterday rather than today because of the rain, better a rain ride and some coolness than that blasted heat that saps my strength so quickly and so thoroughly.  He does not agree.  

I hurry through the first store stop after eating my homemade blueberry oatmeal bar and Annette Melecio, a triathlete, John Pelligrino, and Dave King come with me.  They ask about Steve and Mark, but I really didn't notice if they had already left the store stop.  Dave says he is in training for PBP and getting in and out of controls or stops rapidly. (He will forget this by the third store stop where Annette, John, and I roll out without him while he finishes a milk shake). Dave's relationship with food always amazes and charms me.  Dave and Steve are both headed back to PBP this year and I feel a momentary tinge of regret for not being part of it, but I just don't want to be that tired again.  Twice, I think, is enough.

The first climb is Liberty Knob and I warn them about the dogs at the top.  There is a group of three or four of them that always come out.  I have talked to the owner about them and others have talked with the owner about them, but he is unwilling and/or unable to control them.  They have never bitten a cyclist that I know of, but they can be quite scary.  There are times when I change my route to avoid them. I am wary of groups of dogs like I am groups of people:  both do things in groups that they would never do individually.  Today, however, they are not as bad as usual.  Perhaps, I think, because the stronger riders have already passed this way and wore them out.  Even dogs seems to grow lazy in this humid heat.  

The second climb is William's Knob, better known to me as Bill's Knob as it is on my Marengo  Mangler ride and I would tease my friend, Bill, about it. Teasing.  I think that perhaps it is a sign of a good relationship so long it is not hurtful.  The climb is not quite as long as Liberty, but a bit steeper.  Since my left knee has been bothering me a bit the past few rides, I decide to drop into my triple, something I don't normally do on this climb.  It is newly paved which makes climbing it easier.  I tell the group Sam said there is now a dog residing at the top, and there is; however, he never leaves his yard.  

And now is the time to look forward to the descent on Daisy Hill, the one that always amuses me as a cyclist will almost inevitably being going MUCH faster than the speed limit when the hill ends.  I always envision a  law enforcement officer with his radar gun pulling over cyclist after cyclist. This is the hill that last year, people worried that Tom Askew had gone down on as he did not show for the lunch stop.  (He just missed the stop as it is not right on the course and rode onward).  After the descent, we go to Subway but there is a long line of the faster riders waiting to be served so we head a few streets over to a local cafe for lunch.  

It turns out we arrive prior to lunch.  They tell us food will be quick, and it is.  In the end, however, it does not matter as while we are eating the skies open up, thunder cracks, lightening flares, and rain comes down in a torrent.  We wait until the worst of it passes and head out into a drizzle.  Dave has a rain jacket, I have a cheap emergency poncho that I usually carry on the bike, and Annette and John (with some help from Annette) adorn trash bags donated by the restaurant. 

I worry that we will overheat on the climb that comes almost immediately after the lunch stop, but needlessly.  The air has chilled and I am glad to have my poncho.  It is not too long after, however, that I decide I am starting to sweat inside and stop to take off so as not to dehydrate.  It also reduces the enormous drag that being inside a plastic bubble has on forward movement.  And we are moving.  Each of us seems intent on a fast (for me) pace.  It is cold starting out, but soon the work of the ride warms me.  Annette and John have followed suit removing their trash bags.  We save our plastic just in case, but we never need it. The rain has cooled things down making the ride much more pleasant.

We roll into the third store stop thinking the fast group is in front, but they pull in as we (well, all except Dave) are finishing a quick bite and drink.  I worry about Chris Embry not being in the fast group, but I know he had a rather serious fall.  What I did not know....what he did not know until later....is that he is riding with broken ribs.  (Been there, done that).   In the end, we will end up finishing with this group, but only because they waited at lunch until the rain stopped whereas we did not.  The hills are getting to our legs.  Though there are no significant climbs after the climb to Rake Road right after lunch, there are lots of rollers.  And we have been pushing.   

The end is a whirl.  I end up finishing with Thomas Nance's group only because they have to stop at a stop light, but as I look around at that light I realize that I probably have children as old or older than some of the riders.  For a 67 year old woman, I suppose I did okay.  The rain actually helped by keeping the temperature down.  I just suffer anymore when it is really hot, and my pace shows it.  I vow not to ride so  hard the next century, but who knows.  What a blessing to have the health to ride, slowly or quickly, and ride for a hundred miles.  Is there any better way to spend the day?  And thank goodness for the rain that not only cooled us for the effort, but will lend her beauty to future rides by keeping everything so verdant.

Solo Hardinsburg: Spring 2023

There is no doubt that solitude

is a challenge and to maintain balance

within it is a precarious business.  But I 

must not forget that, for me, being with 

people or even one beloved person for

any length of time without solitude is even

worse.  I lose my center.  I feel dispersed, scattered

and in pieces.  I must have time alone to 

mull over my encounter, and to extract its 

juice, its essence, to understand what has 

really happened to me as a consequence of it."

May Sarton

I wake up and decide it is time to ride my traditional spring century to Hardinsburg and Little Twirl despite the chill of the morning and a tough 62 mile ride the day before.  What is the use of being retired if one always has to plan things?  Just gather your things and go if you so desire.  Life awaits.  And one never quite knows for sure where your bicycle may lead you.  I realize that I desire.....I really desire to ride.   It has been a while since I have indulged myself with a solitary century.  It has been awhile since I have had the desire to do so. I meet the desire with open arms welcoming it back and hoping it settles down and stays.

The centuries I have put together mostly fall into two categories:  those whose goal is a destination and those whose goal is scenery.  Hardinsburg used to have both when the Mennonite Store was open.   Big, fat sandwiches on fresh, homemade bread.  An oasis that was rather in the middle of nowhere which may be why it closed.  

 

 

This left Little Twirl, a constant since I put the route together though it now closes for the winter months, something that it did not used to do.  Don't get me wrong.  I am fond of Little Twirl and it will always hold a special place in my heart.  I still grin thinking of Mike "Diesel Dog" Kamenish spinning around in the parking lot, index finger pointing downward and touching his skull, spinning like a ballerina, giving it a "little twirl." I remember the first group I brought this way, back when Sparky used to ride and kept me in stitches. So many memories. And their food is not terrible.  But it does not replace the lost sandwiches on homemade bread or the memories that store holds.  As I have said so many times, everything changes.  

 

I have always thought the Hardinsburg route was scenic, at least when your mind was not grayed out from lack of oxygen;-)  It has a nice blend of farm land and forest land.  It passes some of the Amish homes that sometimes have something interesting or different going on.  And it is low traffic.  Not once on this route has anyone threatened me in or out of a vehicle.   Sometimes I can ride for a half hour or hour without one car passing me or without seeing another person. 

Still, I also know that despite only having about 4,800 feet of climbing, it always leaves me rather drained.  There are, I suppose, two major climbs, or major for this area.  But there are rollers everywhere.  There is very little in the way of flats once you get out past Pekin and the flat Blue River Road section of the course until a few miles from the end.  Shorts Corner is such a pesky little road.  No major climbs, but it doesn't let you forget that it rolls.  And a steep but rather short climb that the Garmin registers as eighteen percent near Hardinsburg.  Is that major? 

 

 I laugh thinking of how I would hate it when people would call about one of my rides and ask, "Is it hilly?" because hilly to one is not to another.  Heck, now that I am older, what I considered not hilly seems mountainous at times.  Fitness, age, bike, other factors all play into the answer I guess. I remember one time, on a different century, we crossed an overpass that was not particularly steep but has a bit of a bump as most overpasses do and a new riders asking me if there were any more climbs like that on the course.  Leota Hill loomed ahead, a mountain compared to that bump in the road.  If I remember correctly, he bailed at the lunch stop....but that has been so long ago and the rider was not one that ever became near and dear to me so I am not for sure. 

On the ride I find that some farmers have not yet gotten around to spraying their fields so I am treated to large tracts of yellow flowers, so cheerful.  I used to believe they were wild mustard, but Duc told me differently.  Try as I might, I can't remember what he said they were.  Regardless, weed or no weed, they are a delight to the eye if not to the sinuses and I am in no rush today.  Probably a good thing as I have gotten as slow as molasses in January.  I do pass a few farm vehicles making use of the unusually dry weather.  But it is still too cold to do much.  When it is a large vehicle and  on a narrow road, I just stop and pull off to let him/her by hoping to engender good will and for the sake of safety. 

As I near the road that leads to Little Twirl, I think, as I always do on this section of road, of Steve Sexton.  I will never forget the cold December he and I rode this stretch together.  The others had pulled ahead.  I suspect he stayed back with me, not to witness the wind teaching me a lesson, which it did that day, but out of kindness.  Winter sometimes seems to leach the kindness out of us all.  We enjoy riding, but we also want to get it done and get somewhere to warm our bones.  Conflicted feelings I suppose.  I remember another time when a rider I did not know showed for a winter Hardinsburg and how he was averaging nine or ten mph and how I worried he would cause the whole group to get in after dark had fallen.  I tried to cut him loose and give him a short cut home.  He would not listen.  I left him but swept him in later with my car.  

After a small lunch at Little Twirl, the wind is, for a time, my friend.  It was supposed to shift to the west but stayed out of the south. Either will help me on my way home until the last mile or so.   I am not putting much effort into my pedaling, but my speed does not reflect that fact.  More memories pop up.   As I descend the huge hill on Cox Ferry, I think of the time a deer ran right next to me as I descended and my fear that she would veer out onto the road for the steepness combined with my speed made stopping almost an impossibility.  I remember the road crew betting on if I could climb that hill when I first came that way which made me decide to climb it or fall over trying.  I remember Paul Battle, after the descent, looking at me with concern in his eyes and saying, "You don't ride out here by yourself, do you?"  He didn't understand that I feel safer out here than I will ever feel in a city, but the fact that he worried about it touched me.  

Soon I am faced with the worst climb of the day.  It is one of those hills that you think you are doing fine on until you realize it gets steeper toward the top.  But I climb it with no issues.  Perhaps it is larger in my head than it is in reality?  Or perhaps because there is nobody with me to watch my slowness.  I can just take my time without worrying that someone is having to wait for me.   

 

It makes me think of how differently people ride.  Over the years I have found riding companions are different.  Some, like Steve Rice and Bill Pustow, would mostly stay with me and we would talk and share ideas and thoughts.  Bill always had an interesting book he was reading that he would fill me in on. Others, like Jon, like to ride ahead, each of us sharing the course and stops, but other than occasional interludes, riding our own ride. 

 

 I pop in to the Red Barn for my last store stop.  Amos is talking with someone but they leave when I arrive.  I notice his hair is graying as,  of course, is my own.   He talks about his daughter who is a service member and her new baby and I enjoy a bit of conversation before heading toward home and one of my favorite roads.  Low to little traffic, a canopy of trees in many places, and just scenic.

 

 I pass an Amish home where there are three small children outside, the youngest seeming to be about 18 months.  I grin from ear to ear watching her desperately but determinedly trying to keep up with the others dressed with her little bonnet on her head.  In the yard nearby graze two ponies with short, stubby legs and bellies so large they appear to be near to dragging the ground.  I come upon the mother, working in the yard cutting the grass with a non-motorized push mower.  And then I am isolated once more not passing another person or car for miles, able to enjoy the greenness that has drenched the forest.  

I reach home quite tired and quite glad to be there, fully saturated with the day, the sunshine, and the alone time that I still need despite living alone.  Soon I will be craving company, but with the weather becoming more conducive to riding I know that lies ahead shortly.  And in some ways, perhaps, I was not alone today.  The ghosts of cherished, loved friends were with me as I relived memories.  Some ride.  Some no longer ride.  But today, for just a bit, they were by my side.   I was glad to be alive and on a bicycle with no constraints on my time, able to look at where I have come from, where I am now, and where I am going.  Just me, my bike, and the road.  I am blessed. 

Orleans: Trying to Make Use of Coin

"Time is the coin of life.  It

is the only coin you have, and only you

can determine how it will be spent.

Be careful lest you let other

people spend it for you."

Carl Sandburg 

Nobody in their right mind can complain about the weather we have had recently other than the dire need for and lack of rain.  Temperatures have soared above  normal to the low to mid seventies.  Skies have been sunny and largely cloudless and the sun still carries a kiss of warmth with his touch. His caress is more moderate than it is in summer when he is strong, demanding, and forceful, but it is there though without the threat of burned skin.  Less demanding and more comforting, lacking the passion of summer but gaining substance, as love between couples seems to deepen when steeped with years.  Even morning temperatures have been moderate.  In other words, it has been perfect bicycling weather.  Yes, one still has to layer a bit, but to end the day in comfort in shorts and a jersey in November.....well, it doesn't get much better than that.  

I had been excited about a planned new century route that Jon had put together, but my car is on the fritz and so I bowed out.  I certainly don't want to break down on the way home in the dark and with no shoulder to pull off on. I thought he might ride it on his own, but instead he elects to drive here to ride to Orleans with me.  For we are both celebrating and mourning, or I am.  I am celebrating that it is going to be a perfect day for a ride with mild winds and temperatures in the seventies and mourning that it is going to come crashing down and the forecast shows highs in the forties and lows in the twenties for at least a week after tomorrow.  Time, I suppose, to switch to hiking, or to mostly shorter rides.  I do not have the fortitude to face cold weather than I did in the past.  Mental, physical, or a combination of the two.....I still do not really know.

We start at a faster pace than I like for this time of year, but there is a bite in the air and the pace helps to tame it.  About a mile in, however, Jon notices that his headset appears to be loose.  We return to the house and he attempts to fix it.  It tightens and seems tight, but then for some reason loosens again a few miles down the road.  I ask if he feels safe riding or wants to back up and punt.  He opts to ride.  

The fields are mostly bare, stubbled like a man's beard when he needs a shave, almost desolate looking.  I suppose it is that lonely look that fields take on when winter hits as if they mourn the flowers and greenness that adorn them in the spring and summer months just as I do.  Farm houses stand alone, isolated, shielding those within from the winds that have no barrier to soften their blow.  Even the grass along the side of the road looks finished and disheartened, hopelessly clinging to a bit of green but mostly brown and withered looking.  In the areas we pass that have trees, they are mostly bare and seem taller somehow.  The sycamores, my favorites this time of year once the maples have lost their leaves, look lovely and graceful, their limbs like those of a dancer.  What, I wonder, do trees think of winter?  But I suppose trees don't have a brain, at least as we know it, or think.

 

I have two routes to Orleans, but I have chosen the more moderate of the two for a couple of reasons.  Firstly, I have chosen it because it is more moderate though it is 103 miles (and will be 106 today with turning around to fix the headset and uncounted mileage out to the dollar store in Medora).  Secondly, I love the stretch between Medora Tunnelton Hill, including the descent on Tunnelton that S curves under the railroad by a narrow lane.  Or I should say I allowed Jon to choose, but had I ridden alone this was the route I also would have chosen.   The stretch winds past the ancient and no longer functioning Medora Brick Plant and follows the railroad.  I think briefly of Packman, for he was the one who told me of the railroad tunnel I have never found and the reason I came this way.  He is gone now and hopefully at peace.  I think of how in the spring this stretch will explode with color and spring flowers, delighting my eyes, a painting just waiting to be captured on canvas.  

This route has a late lunch stop, and with the extra miles it is later than normal.  Both Jon and I are famished when we arrive at Speak Easy Pizza.  They still have their tables outside and the day is beautiful,  and so we sit outside and eat our pizzas and share a few thoughts before heading back through Salem and home.  As we leave, I realize my legs are a bit tired.  I tell them to quit complaining and a bit of spinning convinces them that they are okay and will make it with no problem.  Sometime I wonder about Jon's willingness to ride with me because he is capable of a much faster pace, but I am grateful for his company.  I think of past riding companions.  So few left that ever ride a century.  So few that I ever see anymore. But I refuse to let sadness seep into this beautiful day.  Instead I think how lucky I have been to have known each of them and created memories that I hold dear.  

As we near Salem, Jon points out a huge cloud of smoke and asks me if there is a power plant nearby.  There is not, at least to the best of my knowledge, and we both wonder what is on fire that would cause such smoke.  We never have our curiosity sated. And before you know it, we are at Casey's, our last store stop.  I opt for a soft drink, something I have pretty much given up other than occasionally on a ride.   I wonder what Jon is up to, go outside and find he has been cornered by a stranger as so often happens on rides.  I chuckle a bit and drink my soft drink.  He enters the store and comes out with nothing saying that when he got in there, he realized there was nothing he wanted.  They have no small cans of pop.  Everything is large sized.  

We leave the route for a bit of a work around due to road construction but soon are on Quaker Road heading for the huge descent.  On Old 56 I see a young Amish boy, maybe five or six, a straw hat perched upon his tiny head and a grin plastered across his face  in the field with five or six ponies furiously waving at Jon who does not see him.  I wave back and he smiles.  Further up the road we come upon a mini Amish cart driven by children pulling out of the drive along with a full sized car driven by adults.  There is an Amish woman on a bicycle with no pedals, powered by her legs and and any downhill slant in the road. A grin lights my face and I remember how much Lloyd admired the Amish and the simplicity that seems to be their lives.  Idealized?  Most likely.  But he always longed for simpler times, something perhaps we all do at times.  I think of my mom in her nineties one time telling me that she just didn't want to have to deal with any more problems.  The world does, at times, already seem too much to handle.  And I only have so much coin to spend, and I want to spend it wisely.

This ride today was wise, almost sophic, in some ways.  I have no regrets for how I spent today's coin, on the road with the simplicity of shorts and jersey (back pockets stuffed with layers from a gradual strip tease).  I have no regrets for the too much pizza I ate at lunch or the aches in my thighs and the stiffness in my movements that reminds me that I am, indeed, aging and that will impact the soundness of my sleep tonight.  While I do not delude myself with the belief that I have not and will not waste some  of the coin that has been allotted to me, I try my best not to do so, to hold the moments more dear.  And this is one thing that becomes easier with age and the realization that there is, indeed, a last time for everything.  I am indeed blessed and have been for many, many years.  And I am grateful for the day, the company, bicycles, and the coin that I have already been given. 

 

 

Medora Goes PInk 2022

"The first breath of Autumn was 

in the air, a prodigal feeling, a 

feeling of wanting, taking, and 

keeping before it is too late."

J. L. Carr 

 

Medora Century......it always is a rather poignant time, falling as it does on the second week-end of October to celebrate Medora goes pink, and signaling the coming end of comfortable riding.  Yes,  one can ride all winter long.  I did it for years.  And I still ride sometimes in the winter cold.  But it is not the same and does not hold the same freedom that a summer ride does clad only in shorts and jersey and with long hours of sunlight that allow for lollygagging.  Medora, since it started going pink in October,  always brings an awareness to me of how fragile our lives are as well having lost two grandmothers to breast cancer and with my mother having had breast cancer though surviving.  

The Medora rides started many years prior to the festival start and also brings happy memories, and I feel certain that today's ride will be no exception.  I have ridden there with so many people and have seen so many changes within the town.  I remember a winter ride with Grasshopper, and how as we sat and ate our sandwiches, snug and warmed by the inside of the long defunct store as well as our friendship, the snow began to fall, flakes as big as my hand driven sideways by a strong wind, and we wondered about making it home. I remember showing the bridge to Greg Z. when he came to visit and how the main road was closed so we found a way that contained gravel yet he did not complain.  I remember the year some of the riders decorated and wore bras outside their jerseys, including some of the men.  I remember the years riders rode the barrel train in town.  I remember the many, many times I helped first time century riders finish and sharing their elation at their accomplishment, for a century, no matter how easy, is still an accomplishment. 

I change the start time due to the unexpected cold weather and wheels don't roll until 9:00.  It is, indeed, the first breath of Autumn. I don't know it this will help or hurt attendance, but it will certainly make the ride more pleasant for me.  I am not sure how many will show, but I do learn that there will be riders from Riddenfadden and SWI along for ride.  And it turns out to be a nice turnout though smaller than many times in the past.  22 riders turn out for a glorious fall day that, while cool, will be filled with sunshine.  Larry Preble, Tom Hurst, Amelia Dauer, Mark Peterson, John Pelligrino, Dave King, Bob Grable, Fritz Kopatz, Paul Battle, Steve Puckett, Tom Askew, Dee Schreur, Jessie Dietrich, Tony Nall, Steve Meredith, Jonathan Lichensteiner, Jonathan Wineland, Peggy Bannon, John Mahorney, Thomas Nance, and Beth Niccum.  Some I know, some I don't.  Regardless, all are welcome.  Smiles seem to dominate and the chatter is upbeat and falls like music on my ears.  This will, I feel certain, be a glorious day.

At the ride start, I find out that the Chicken Chase, a road race, has been scheduled for the same day.  Not only is it scheduled for the same day, but it has the same start time and the same first few miles of the course.  It slows us for a bit when the sweeping vehicle blocks our path, but he allows us around.  I try to encourage the runners/walkers and to be courteous as we pass.  Hopefully they don't mind our passage.  

 

As I expect, the crowd rather quickly divides into groups.  I stay in the back as I will throughout the ride, sweeping.  Sometimes sweeping can be a chore, a struggle to find conversation with people I don't know well, a struggle against personal needs and wants, but today is a pleasure.  For once, there is little wind, for wind often is the nemesis of this route turning what should be a fairly easy ride into a battle.  And despite the chilly start, a quick warming.  Ideal cycling weather.  

At the slower pace, I am able to nice the contrast of the trees, some fighting to maintain the illusion of green summer and some yielding to oranges, yellows, browns, and reds.  When there is a gust of wind, at a  point in the route where there are trees instead of fields, small leaves flutter to the ground giving a festive feel to an already festive ride.   I try to register each beautiful thing I pass to hold close in the coming winter, to cling to when it seems the sky will never be blue again and the sun will never share his warmth but will continue to give me his cold shoulder.  And Carr is right, I want and want and perhaps even need without being really sure of what it is that I want and need, just knowing that it is something.   And knowing that I will blink and the trees will be bare, many bicycles will be put up, and I will still feel as if I missed it, as if I missed something. 

It seems like a short time when we arrive at the covered bridge, but the first group is already coming back through having eaten and returning to the stop.  Larry takes a photo of us at the bridge and makes the comment about the photo being "Medorable" causing long though good natured groans to emerge from the crowd along with a few giggles.  Thomas comments that Larry must have thought that up last night and been saving it for just the right moment.  They tease me about some woman in Medora asking about me and saying I am there every year. And then we are off.  They head home, three of us head to the festival and to find some lunch.   

 

I am hungry as I had only an apple and some V8 for breakfast knowing that the food here would not be healthy and would be calorie laden.  Since Scotland, I have struggled to lose the weight I gained and winter will not help that struggle as cold weather causes cravings for comfort foods rather than salads and veggies.  I get my usual sandwich and sit where I can bathe in the sunlight for a bit before swinging my leg back over the bike.  As we leave, I try to remember the first rides where i put the initial Medora course together, but my memory fails me.  I remember plenty of rides to Medora, with others and solo, but that ride escapes me.  

We are rather slow on the way in and I wonder if anyone will be waiting to join us for   pizza, but there are a few that have stayed and chatted waiting for us.  The pace is fine, however, and worth the elation I see on Beth's face when she finishes and makes it up the last climb without walking. We all go to have pizza despite Dave's disappointment that the restaurant does not have beer and there is laughter and fellowship.  Henryville is a small town and for the first time it hits me that there is no liqueur store in the town and no bar.  I don't think the grocery sells alcohol either despite the fact I know it is not a dry county.  Rather interesting and probably saves the town from some problems it might otherwise have, but also affecting the economy.  For booze is popular.  

I don't know what  the ride was like for most of the people today, but I hope it was as nice a day for them as it was for me, that they drank their fill of sunshine and the last of summer/first of autumn, that they got something to "keep" before it was too late.  And I wish them memories to warm themselves with when the winter that is fast approaching arrives. 

STORY CENTURY IN THE FALL: UNPLANNED BLESSINGS

"I remember it as October days

are always remembered, cloudless,

maple flavored, the air gold and

so clean it quivers."

Leif Enger 

 

I like to try to ride all my century routes at least once yearly, but despite being retired, between tour stages and doing Jon's centuries and age and increasing recovery time needs, I find it is not always happening. Perhaps sloth also enters into the equations.  Regardless, it is what it is.

 

 Story is one of my favorites.  Not necessarily because of the roads.  Some of the roads, particularly at the start, get a bit boring with miles of crops, but because of the destination.  Something about the old, pretty much abandoned, small town of Story with its outdoor dining and rustic atmosphere draws me.  

Despite the wind prediction, it is best to ride it on Sunday as there is road construction that I may have to route around if it is impassable and the outside dining and music is only available on week-ends.  Passage also is easier on week-ends when road workers are at home.  Some will  let me pass.  Others are determined not to do so even if there is a clear path through. And so last minute I shoot an email to Jon telling him what I am doing and that if he wants to join me he is welcome.  I get an email back that he does want to ride.  While I intend to ride anyway, it will be nice to have company on the journey.  

The day dawns with a chill, colder than normal but not as cold as it has been. It is fresh and inviting, this crispness that often comes with fall despite knowing what comes after.  I know I will be shedding layers to remain comfortable so don a backpack. I also know I will not be freezing at the start as happens with winter rides.  The sky is blue and the sunshine is bright.  We head off pedals briskly spinning as we warm our legs for the task ahead. 

As we ride, I am glad that the wind will be in our face on the way out and not most of the way back, for it is strong.  At one point, Jon mentions that flags are flying straight out, often an indicator of 20 mph. Regardless, it is hard work, this pedaling into the wind.  I laugh as we come upon a kettle of vultures, some sitting on the roof, telling them it is not yet time.  During our ride, we will pass three to four kettles and I jokingly tell Jon I will need to change the name of the ride to the vulture ride.  Perhaps they know, somehow, about the increasing difficulties of these rides, how they stretch me not only  physically but mentally, but how I love them.  

As always, during the ride I will think of times and people  I have ridden this course with in the past.  Bill Pustow comes to mind.  It was a nice day, that day, just Bill and I.  And Mark Rougeuz and Paul Battle one time, Mark pushing the pace as he always does while Paul and I desperately try to keep his wheel, hearts pounding, legs pushing, breath rasping.  And more.  One reason I keep this blog is to remind myself of miles and of people I have shared them with knowing that a day will come when I or they will stop riding, when I will grieve the loss of them because not all losses are due to death though that is always a possibility.  Sometimes I wonder if there is, indeed, an afterlife, as I believe, do we keep our memories?  If so, do they still remain special.  For I have loved so many of those I have ridden with, the warmth of their company, the stories they  have shared, the laughter we have indulged in.  But like the leaves in autumn, I let go while holding the memory of those blessed moments. Still, they are all blessings that have enriched my life and for which I give thanks. 

I wonder as we approach Freetown if the Dollar Store will have put the small store, Denny's, out of business.  But it has not.  Denny's is open and business is brisk. I rejoice and will gladly pay a bit more to keep these small stores in business.  According to the sign, Denny's has been there and in business since 1946.  I think of Thomas Nance saying that it was his belief that we have been our own worst enemies in this area, buying from bigger stores to save a dollar or two and helping them put the small business out of business.  And I think he has a point. 

 

 The road out, often one that has some traffic on it, is lightly trafficked due to road closures.  Along the edge of the roads, I begin to notice more leaf changes. It is beautiful but holds an element of sadness knowing that short, dark, and cold days are on their way.  But today is not a day for sadness.  It is a day for rejoicing with sun that still speaks of warmth, bicycles, blue skies, and company that I enjoy.  

At one point, I tell Jon how one of the things that bothers me about aging is that I need more rest, and that there are days like today where when I don't use the day actively but resting there is a feeling of wastefulness.  Perhaps because age makes us more aware of how days are numbered, particularly days of riding centuries.  And he agrees.  He has the same feeling at times.  

Story is lightly populated and the food service is fast though they are out of things listed on their menu outside.  Still, the barbecue is delicious and the portion is large enough that I struggle to finish it.  Music, per a woman we met there, does not start until after we will be gone.  Jon is talking with this woman when I return from a bathroom run.  She is quite interesting and certainly outgoing. A few years younger than me, her big accomplishment last year was riding her mule across the state of Michigan in a cross state event of some type.  She is here with her girlfriend to ride this area and tells us we need to go to the Garden of the Gods in Illinois sometime.

We would talk longer, but day light, while still ample, is shorter.  So we push off enjoying the tailwind that is now ours and well earned.  The morning slog into the wind has taken its toll on my legs but I still manage a decent pace the rest of the way back despite their ache.  At Dairy Queen, we find the dining area is finally open.  I rejoice because I have been looking forward to a chocolate shake to fuel me for the rest of the ride home.  Soon, as I point out to Jon, it will be too cold to sit outside enjoying the cool shake sliding down my throat. Even with the wind, I enjoy sitting outside with the sun, however pallid compared to summer, beating down on me. And my ride has paid the dues for this treat.

Other than the climb out of Brownstown, the hills are finished and we glide back in finding that while not all of the road closure signs have been removed, the road is open.  The day is spent but not wasted.  Never wasted on a bicycle.  I am, indeed, blessed. 

Orleans: Spring 2022

"Spring drew on...and a greenness

grew over those brown beds, which,

freshening daily, suggested the thought

that Hope traversed them at night,

and left each morning brighter traces

of her steps."

Charlotte Bronte

Finally, a day that offers a healthy dose of sunshine as well as warmer temperatures and a lighter wind.  As I age, I find myself less and less able to convince myself that I want to do a hard ride on gray, cold, gloomy, damp days.  It is not so much that I can't do them anymore, I can albeit slower than in the past, but that I have no desire or need to do them. I would rather paint or read or go hiking on those days knowing that more comfortable bicycling days will arrive.  And spring, of course, offers many of those days.  This year, perhaps, more than  normal with lower than normal temperatures and extremely few peeks of sunshine.  

When I saw the forecast, I immediately put the century on the schedule, not just because of the forecast, but because they are starting major road construction on the expressway between Louisville and many of my ride starts next week.  I fear that it will cause such traffic congestion, that few will want to head this way for bicycle rides and run the risk of a long sit in the car on the way home.  

As it turns out, it is one of those rides that I definitely favor.  There is a small group, only four of us, and nobody seems to be in a rush.  Everyone seems content just to enjoy our time on the bikes, the lovely spring weather, and the company.  I believe we are all glad that the self-imposed isolation of winter is drawing to a close and understand that spring is, indeed, a time to build strength in the legs and lungs. It also is also a time to renew friendships and rejoice.  The pace can slow a bit because you don't have to push so hard to keep warm.  While the start is cold, in the thirties, it is sunny with little wind.  And it is to warm to the 60's later in the day.  Steve Meredith, Dave King, Jon Wineland, and I head out toward Medora, the first stop on this journey.  

I am comfortable during this first leg other than my fingers which are cold.  I try to protect them a bit by holding onto the handlebar in such a way that my fingers are sheltered a bit from the wind by my handlebar bag.  I know the discomfort is short lived, and I am glad for that.  The discomfort is overridden by the joy of being on a bicycle in the spring with the sun shining and the joy of being with people that I have not seen in for what seems like ages.  At some point, and I can't exactly pinpoint when,  I realize that I have warmed and my fingers are no longer little popsickles.

The miles pass quickly with everyone catching up.  Steve and Dave are both doing the Kentucky brevet series and we talk quit a bit about PBP, a ride Steve has not yet done and has expressed an interest in.  As I do with everyone that is capable, I encourage this interest because, at least for me, PBP was such a unique experience:  both times I completed it.  Each was different but each was special in its own way.  Yes, I remember those hard moments, but mostly I remember the highs or the things that surprised me, like one woman at the start saying she brought her makeup because she thought it might make her feel better. Those who know me well know it is only on very rare occasions that I don makeup, and it never in a million years or a million miles would have occurred to me to bring some along on PBP  or any other long brevet.  How different we all are. Vive la difference!

 

But back to Orleans.  The first store stop is in Medora.  While in town, I seek out and we find the new cafe that Lynn Luking was kind enough to tell me had opened there, because everything had gone out of business other than the new Dollar Store. I think how I will be happy to ride back here one sunny afternoon for lunch to check out the selection and quality of the food they offer.

 

 One of my favorite sections is immediately leaving Medora and riding alongside the railroad track all the way up the Devil's Backbone and then down Tunnelton past the magnificent mansion that originally was built for Masonic widows and under the railroad tracks and across the bridge.  And today it does not disappoint.  There are many wildflowers that grow there that have not yet bloomed, but the daffodils, while some are a tad faded, seem so beautiful and cheery.  I think how I adore it in the spring when the Earth wakes up, stretches her arms, and drops blobs of color everywhere.   Purple grape hyacinths at times accent the brilliance of the daffodils yellow.  Redbuds are blossoming. And everything is growing so green, so very green.  

Interestingly, on the climb up the backbone, Steve notes that a white truck went over the edge at some time or another and down the steep embankment toward the valley and creek.  I worry that someone might be hurt in there as you would not be likely to spot it in a car, but they assure me that it has been there awhile and we ride on.

Dave stops on the bridge, and those of us who have ridden with Dave often know why, but still I ask to ensure he is okay.  He is and I ride on knowing Dave will catch me.   Jon gets a chuckle when learning of Dave's habit, initially thinking he is joking.  I assure him such is not the case and we enjoy a shared grin. We all regroup after the long climb that is challenging only due to length as there is not much steepness to contend with.  At this point, people begin shedding layers, but I decide I will be fine until we reach Orleans, and I truly am. I often seem to run a bit colder than others though I suspect my house is kept at a colder temperature than most.

 

At this point age comes up.  I am the oldest and Dave the youngest.  I find it amusing to find that we are all 5 year increments apart starting with Dave who is 50 and leading to 65. 

People are also beginning to get hungry, and Dave's face is priceless when he learns lunch is not until 63 miles, but the lunch stop more than makes up for his dismay at having to wait.  Personally, I prefer lunch a bit later on a century.  But I knew it was going to be late.  It is different, I suppose when it is a surprise. The wind has cranked up and I am glad we are going into it knowing that after lunch we should have, at least for awhile, a sweet tail wind. By the time we reach Orleans, everyone is ready for a break. 

 

  We stop at "Speak Easy Pizza" and their pizza has been delicious each and every time I have stopped there.  Today, however, it seems even better than usual and I remember, as I always do, how much riding distances improves the taste of food.  So often I eat without truly being hungry because my body has not been challenged.  Steve gets a salad and says that it is as good as it looks.  I realize he is not just saying this to be polite when he makes a comment about having to bring his wife here sometime.  Dave is impressed with their selections of beer and whiskey though none of us indulge.  The owner comes out to inquire about our riding and, along with a few customers that question us, seem to be impressed that we are riding 104 miles today.  I remember how glad I was during a ride to find this place as most of the eating places in the town had closed.  I have entire routes that are difficult to ride anymore due to store closures, but this, fortunately, is not one of them.  

 

We leave and see another cyclist on our way out of town.  Despite the sweet tail wind, we don't quite catch up to him before our turn.  Orleans used to have a paid ride in the spring, The Dogwood Pedal.  Despite that, I have never seen another cyclist during my trips to and through Orleans on rides.  

 

By now, all of us have shed layers and are feeling the blessed warmth of the day.  The miles to the last store stop in Salem seem to roll by quickly and despite all the moaning and groaning over the hills on Bee Line and full bellies from lunch, we all relax unhurriedly on the curb in the sunshine.

 

As always seems to happen on my centuries, one road is closed.  This time it is 56, but it is an easy workaround.  We roll through the town square and then cut over.  I grin to myself because Steve mentioned the detour when he arrived today, but it just didn't click until we actually neared the detour.  Oh, well, nobody seemed overly put out over the extra half mile or so it adds to our journey.

 

When we pull on Quaker Road, we pass someone on a recumbent going the other way.  I don't recall ever seeing a recumbent in this area before unless it was someone on a ride with me, so this sticks in my mind.  It becomes even more of a puzzlement about 10 miles later when we pass another who is dressed in the same bright green and greatly resembles the first cyclist.  In my mind I go through all the roads in my mind and know that there is no possible way it is the first cyclist.  The others confirm this.  

 

And then we are finished.  It is pleasant to end a century feeling sated but not spent.  It is pleasant to have spent an entire day on a bicycle in sunshine that is bright but not searing with people who also love riding and don't get mad or upset when there is an obstruction on the course.  It is pleasant to share an unhurried lunch with those same people.  It is pleasant to have friends.  And it is pleasant and more to see the annual spring greening and to think that I am still healthy enough to ride centuries and to have hopes of riding many, many more.  How blessed to have hope. 

Campbellsburg Century Revisited

"You may not remember the

time you let me go first. Or the time

you dropped back to tell me it wasn't

that far to go. Or the time

you waited at the crossroads for me 

to catch up. You may not remember any

of those, but I do and this is what I have to

say to you:  "Today, no matter what it takes, 

we ride home together."

Brian Andreas

 

It is interesting, this century a week, reminding me of the early days when a few of us rode two centuries most week-ends, all of our free time spent with the bicycles, each other, and the open road.  That intensity passed.  There were other paths to travel, spouses to appease, other interests to pursue.  Despite becoming quite special, people became known, and as the saying goes, familiarity can breed contempt, or if not contempt a lack of appreciation. Life has a way of shaking things up. Change happens.  So I was not at all sure what sort of response I would get this year to scheduling a century every week-end  that I possibly could throughout the traditional touring season. 

 

So far, interest remains higher than I anticipated.  This week draws Mike Kamenish (who arrives after the start but is so strong that he quickly catches up), Larry Preble, Tom Askew, Tom Hurst, Bob Grable, and John Pelligrino, all of whom have ridden at least some of the centuries I have put on this year.  The centuries do not draw the huge crowds that the Tour de Mad Dog drew, but it harkens back to the closeness those of us who shared the roads  all those years ago knew.  Perhaps because the group is smaller.  Despite the different riding abilities, there have been rides like the last where everyone has pretty much stayed together.  So far as I know,  nobody has felt as if the pace was more than they could or wanted to handle and nobody has felt it was so slow as to be tortuous.

I have urged people to ride ahead if they feel the desire and the need, for in part I am reliving memories as I am putting on many routes that I myself designed.  This ride brings back memories of no map or GPS as I  planned the route, heading out with bicycle, pen, paper, and sidewalk chalk on that I used to mark turns on roads I was not familiar with so that I knew how to get back.  This ride brings back memories of cutting off some of my son's old tube socks to use as arm warmers as I could not afford to buy real arm warmers at the time.  It brings back memories of people that I loved who no longer ride at all or who no longer ride distance or who no longer ride with me.  And with that company, I have no fear of being alone.   But they do not drop me.  A few ride ahead, but we always regroup at stores and there is laughter and conversation as new memories are formed.  

 

I think of how when the Tour de Mad Dog began, despite differing abilities, people rode together.  It reminded me of the saying above.  Suddenly in my memory I am alone on a brevet at night in the middle of Texas after having a flat and watching the lights of the group I was riding with disappear leaving me in complete and utter darkness other than my bicycle light.  And I was afraid, not terrified, but afraid.   But it was not too long before they returned, helping, urging me on, assuring me I could fix the flat and finish, that we would finish together. And we did.  I think  of how when the Tour de Mad Dog began, fifteen people might stop and loll in the grass, talking and joking, while someone fixed a flat.  But I am brought back to the present by the riders with me. 

We arrive at the Red Barn store after the long climb.  Everyone nervously asks about the climb ahead for I have assured them it is a tough climb.  I believe that other than myself, only two have climbed it before.  I tell them of how my friend, Paul Battle, fell over on the climb.  Of the numerous people who walked, unable to turn the pedals due to the steepness.  I tell them of how you are riding along in a valley and suddenly you will see trees arching over the roadway, darkening the entrance to the climb, as if foreshadowing what is to come.  But we climb it and arrive at Little Twirl for lunch.  Some say they read a 26 percent grade, others a bit less, but everyone agrees it was a tough climb.  

 

Then we hit the head wind from hell and endure it for numerous miles before making the turn for a crosswind and lunch. As I take my turn pulling, I think that the headwind is as strong as was predicted and wonder about those of us who chose to ride in it rather than stay home with our feet propped up.  But despite the challenge, or perhaps to some extent because of the challenge, we are having a good time. 

I am concerned about how the food at Little Twirl will  be as I have not eaten there for some time, but the concern is needless.  While it does not have the healthiest selection of foods, it tastes good, particularly in comparison to some of the fine sidewalk dining at gas stations I have done over the years.   Little Twirl was the original store stop, before the Mennonite Store that came and is now closed.  It used to be open all year long, but now it opens only spring through fall.  New ownership.  Everything changes.

We leave and resume our journey into the headwind knowing that it is about to come to an end, and as we turn onto Beck's Mill it does.  At Beck's Mill, however, we find that the road is closed as the bridge is being rebuilt.  Workmen are busy.  Tom Askew is brave enough and persuasive enough that we are permitted to pass with the recommendation that we carry our bikes because of nails.  As I carry my bike, I wonder about how nail repellent cycling shoes are, but I don't bring it up.  Nobody gets a nail in their foot and I heave a sigh of relief.  And Larry gives Tom a Mad Dog name, Ambassador.  The naming of dogs, well, as T. S. Eliot says about cats, is serious business.  And it has been awhile since a Mad Dog has earned a name.  We are all grateful that the Ambassador saved our tired legs extra miles.  Nobody complains which is good because I did warn everyone I had not driven or ridden the route ahead of time.  

At one point, and I can't remember exactly when, we all do a double take when passed by an Amish couple on bicycles.  She has her bonnet and her dress on and he is also dressed traditionally.  No helmets.  I didn't look but I feel certain no cleats.  But they are both intent on their cycling and look to be as fast as the wind. I have run into Amish cycling once before, a number of years ago, but it was a group of young Amish men. 

And then we are at the end.  No Dog has been left behind this day though one of our number began to get leg cramps from the heat.  But he persevered and finished.  I suspect that now he has adapted to the heat, he will be fine.  And what a wonderful day it was.  Perhaps I can give back a bit of what I have been given, for there have been many rides when others could have gone on and left me but chose not to. "No matter what it takes, we ride home together."

 

 

Short Frankfort: Century of the Week 2021

"What makes something special

is not just what you have to gain,

but what you feel there is to lose."

Andre Agassi 

 

The night before the ride, I wonder if the century will be a go as there is talk of severe thunderstorms and high winds, but things sound a bit better in the morning with most of the bad weather staying north.  So I leave early for the ride start as it is quite a drive for me.   I am looking forward to the ride.   It has been awhile since I have ridden these roads.  Since I am playing with centuries this year, I am trying to vary the ride starts so it is not always a long drive for the same people, but when I think about it the participation has mostly been varied this year.  And today is no different.  There are five of us that are going to ride, and only three of us have done a century this year.  Tom Askew, Larry Preble, Gail Blevins, Trey (last name unknown), and I head out into the cool of the morning well aware that it will not last and is supposed to get into the ninties.

At first I think that the group will split early into two groups because of the different ability/fitness levels, but it turns out to be one of those special days when everyone seems content to ride together and enjoy each other's company.  There seems to be no rush to get anywhere or to finish.  We proceed not at a break neck pace, but we aren't crawling along either. People  talk to each other for a bit, then talk to someone else in the group, and when the group does split a bit on a hill or when someone is feeling their oats, they  stop and allow the others to catch up and regroup.  

 

I love these types of rides, the rides where there is just the company, the scenery, the challenges, and the bicycles.  The type of ride where nobody is in a hurry, where everyone seems to know that no matter their level of expertise of fitness, what is important is the overall experience of the ride:  the sound of conversation, some serious, some frivolous, the sound of laughter, the sound of wheels turning, the look of smiles on faces, the startling greenness and lushness that surrounds us, the feel of the wind caressing our faces,  the wonder of being alive and being on a bicycle.  I hold these things close, treasure them, memorize them, hoping to use them as a shield when the day comes when I can no longer participate.   As Agassi says, I am gaining from this ride, but the appreciation also comes from knowing what I, and the others, will eventually lose.  I send up a silent prayer pleading not yet, not soon, well aware of my selfishness for I have been given so much.  How grateful I am for this day and these riders.  How cognizant I am that these types of rides can't be forced.  They either happen or they don't.

Despite the temperature being in the nineties, the  cloud cover and wind make it seem like it really is not overly hot.  Even the long climb into Frankfort, not steep but long, does not seem overly demanding.  The only disappointment is, upon arriving at Qdoba, the traditional lunch stop for the Short Frankfort, they are not open due to staffing issues.  We eat, instead, at Panera where Gail keeps everyone in stitches throughout the meal.  I don't know if she realizes how funny she is, but everyone is giggling and enjoying themselves.  Larry takes photos.  As for me, I try to make an image to retain in my mind.   I try to memorize the sounds of their laughter, the timbre of their voices, the ways their  lips curve when they smile.  And I know, despite the fact nothing unusual has happened, that I will remember this day and this ride.  

Perhaps if all rides were like this, they would not be so special.  They would become ordinary...mundane...repetitive.  But most rides are not like this, not with the differing levels of ability.  Like everyone else, I have days when I want to ride  hard, to feel my lungs heave and gasp for oxygen, to feel my muscles burn, and other days when I want to poke along at a snail pace, stop and take photos, lollygag.  But for now I am glad for this day, for these people, and for bicycles.  It is practically guaranteed that I will, eventually, lose contact with most if not all of them.  I have watched it happen before.  It seems a lot to lose. The thought makes my heart ache,  but oh, how much I have gained from this day.  And I am grateful:  grateful for the laughter, for the camaraderie, for our health, and this gray day that sheltered us from heat that could easily have stolen the laughter and turned it into curses.  Once again I am grateful for bicycles. 

A December Century

"In the sweetness of friendship let

there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things, the heart 

finds its morning and is refreshed."

Khalil Gibran

 

 When Jon asks if I am interested in riding a century with him on Friday, I am hesitant to answer.  It has been quite a while since I have ridden a longer ride, no less a century.  He "says" the course is an easy one, but easy to one person may be hard to another.  It reminds me of people would call to ask about one of my rides and ask if there are hills.  I quickly learned that what was a mountain to one rider was only a bump in the road to another.  And Jon is a stronger rider than I am. Still, he has ridden with me numerous times before and should know my pace. Will it be an imposition if it is a choice?  As usual, I don't want to be a bother.

 

  I ask myself if he truly wants to ride as slowly as I am likely to go.   I ask myself if I will be able to finish without feeling as if I want to die.  I ask myself if I will be able to get in before dark as if I have not ridden miles and miles in the dark.  I no longer ask myself if it is the smart thing to do as the answer to that question really doesn't seem to matter;-) I chide myself for getting so out of shape and think again how I miss the encouragement of the Big Dogs. When I answer I tell him yes, but that he can back out if he is not okay with going slowly and that I intend to have a working light on my bike for "just in case."  Things happen.  People bonk.  Mechanicals eat time.  Snack stops need to be made.  You just can't ride one hundred miles easily without eating and while I have done centuries eating on the bike, I prefer to have a bit of a rest. 

 

One lesson you learn from riding brevets is how to inhale food or gulp it down with minimal chewing.  As a friend told me about brevets, if you aren't eating, riding, or sleeping you are doing it wrong.  But in all truthfulness, I have always gobbled down my food.  With four siblings, it became a right of survival. And it always seemed there were more interesting things to do than to sit and eat. While we always sat at the dinner table for the evening meal unless mom and dad were going out, I don't really remember that there was much conversation.  

 

I do remember that Mom would, for some reason, fix only one small box of spinach, one of our favorite foods courtesy of Popeye the sailor man, and you never got to eat as much of it as you would have liked.  And so you ate fast, in hopes of snagging seconds. As I write this, a Popeye ditty that my husband learned in the army and used to sing comes to mind and causes a smile to flit across my face.  I do miss him.  He was not silly often, but when he was oh how it made me laugh.  I then remember my brother, Chris, now gone.  When I would ask him to pass a bowl of food, he would always ask me, "High or low?  Fast or slow?"  How I miss them, these people who loved me and that I loved.

Anyway, Jon shares the starting place and does not take the out I provided him with, so at 8:00 a.m. my bike and I are at the start in Madison, Indiana.  The morning is chilly, but there is sunshine and it is really not cold for the time of year.   Jon has a cue sheet. He is one of the few people I know that rides with no GPS.  I am riding blind. But Jon has no light, so perhaps we are equal.  He sent me the cue sheet, but I found myself unable to make the connections on the map to program the route.  It reminds me of when I first started riding with groups, prior to anyone having a GPS, and how dependent we were on sheets of paper.  I have read that GPS units actually are not good for brain function (mine never functioned that well anyway), but I look at them as being safer.  Two accidents I had while cycling were caused by one person turning while the other was not or vice versa.  Regardless, like cell phones, they have their good and bad and they are not going away. Had I been able to program the route in, I would have been using mine.  

 

 

The miles pass quickly and we are at or close to 40 miles when we make our first stop.  Jon suggests stopping besides a lake.  It is pretty, the water shimmering in the sunlight, the wind playfully nipping the surface, and the buildings around it are decorated for Christmas.  I would love to see it at night, lit up. I worry a bit about how the people who own the land will feel if they see us here, on their property, resting, but as Jon points out they would probably just ask us to move on down the road.  Jon is surprised when I say I am going to have my lunch sandwich, but I am hungry and know I need the fuel for the ride.  I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.  Instead I had an apple and some low sodium V-8 juice.....and coffee......lots and lots of coffee.  Jon, as he often does, brought lasagna.  Despite the early hour, he decides to join me in making the stop lunch and eats at least part of it intending to finish it at a stop down the road. 

Most of the fields we pass are now brown, barren, and littered with stubble, though we do run across a few farmers still harvesting.  Most of the farmers in this area have other jobs.  Their farms are not large enough to support themselves and their families on and so they work the land when they can, often using their vacation time and hoping that the weather cooperates. I think how there is something special in people working to provide for those that they love and even more special when they give to those that they don't. There is beauty here along the route if a different kind of beauty than is to be found in the other seasons, starker and more demanding, like the faces of old people that are etched with wisdom and experience lacking the smooth, soft innocence of youth.   Beauty surrounds us in different forms and sizes and ways.  Perhaps the realization that life goes on and is renewed, with or without us, is part of the plan.  Acceptance.

 

There is an allure in the developing friendship that Jon and I share as we travel these roads.  We are beginning to reach the point in our friendship where there are shared jokes based on history. How I love laughter, the way it makes me feel, the smile it brings to my face, the way it feeds my soul. We are getting to know each others likes and dislikes, the ways we are similar and the ways we are different.   There is beauty in our love of the bike and the freedom it brings, the hum of pedals and chains spinning.  Despite COVID, I have much to be grateful for, this new and still fragile friendship being of those things,  and finally, the Calvary appears to be one the way with a vaccine how being approved though not yet available. I still have hopes of being able to cash in on the cycling trip I won to Scotland over the winter.

 

  

As we ride, I notice a shoe in the road and joke that Cinderella must have left it behind.  And then there is another, different shoe down the road.  Jon spots its mate.  And then a sock.  Jon teases that if we ride long enough we will begin to find underwear and tells me the story of riding this course with its designers, Dave Fleming, and coming across a man clad ONLY in boots, no clothing, walking between his barn and his house.  Not long after he points out the house, we come across a group working outside and I notice that the one man has his underwear showing as he bends over doing whatever it is he is doing:  a lot of his underwear.  If my eyes were better, I could have told you the brand for it is written in large letters across the waist band. I crack up and ask Jon if he saw the man. He did not but we both giggle over my sighting.  Jon later says that if we had ridden a double century, we surely would  have come across someone completely unclothed.  Life has such humor in it if we open our eyes and our hearts, but it is much better when that humor is shared with a friend.

I complete the ride tired but in better shape than I expected.  While neither of us eat inside of restaurants anymore due to COVID, Jon suggests getting barbecue and eating outside.  We go to a most unusual place:  Hoboken Eddie's.  As it turns out, not only is the barbecue good, but Eddie tells us how he ran Alaska Iditarod Run.   An interesting place and an interesting man with excellent food though the hygiene reminds me a bit of Varnderpohl. But despite the warmth in my heart and soul,  it grows cold outside so we eat our sandwiches and  part ways sated by a day of friendship, laughter, and bicycles.  I am so glad I said yes and did not let my doubts define me.  I am glad for friendship and the pleasures it bestows.  And I am glad for bicycles.  What a sad world it would be without them.  Gibran is right:  it is in the dew of these little things that I am refreshed.

An Untroubled Century Ride

"At these times, the things that troubled

her seemed far away and unimportant:

all that mattered was the hum of the bees

and the chirp of the birdsong, the way the

sun gleamed on the edge of a blue wildflower,

the distant bleat and clink of grazing goats."

Alison Croggon

It seems impossible, particularly after the blazingly hot, humid days of the past few weeks, to have the prediction for a high in the low 80's and little humidity.  Each day recently, upon awakening, I would find so much condensation on the windows that it was hard to see out and 90's with heat index near or over 100 degrees a broken record, relentlessly repeating itself. But this morning there is just a hint around the bottom of the pane. And here it is, the forecast for cooler, less humid weather, and even the night before it is not changed.  The only club ride that would possibly have tempted me would have been a long one, and there are none.  So I decide to head out on a solo century, a journey that has been calling me for awhile but which I have weakly resisted due to the hot, steamy days that making breathing more difficult as if the air had thickened to consistency of honey.

Coolness wraps  its arms around me, bringing goosebumps to my uncovered arms, and I wonder if I should have worn light arm warmers.  I giggle to myself thinking of how when I first started riding and lacked many of the essentials, I cut the toes off some old tube socks so they could serve as warmers.  And when I am done giggling to myself, I realize I no longer feel the chill in any way but a pleasant way, one of the odd phenomenons of riding. I suppose the exercise warms the body. I have decided on the Christy century, and early in the ride I pass the spot where, long ago. I came upon a fox, sitting in the middle of the road, enjoying the morning sun as if he did not have a care in the world.  I remember thinking he was a dog until I drew closer, and then worrying if he was, perhaps, rabid, since he seemed in no  hurry to run from the bicycle that was bearing down on him.  Up he got and slid seamlessly into the nearby woods, disappearing all too quickly yet not seeming hurried. 

I wonder what the day will hold for me because you never really know, particularly if you are on a bicycle. We often think we know how our day will go, reeking with boredom, only to find that it just does not go that way. Sometimes it is a relief when the unexpected happens and sometimes it seems a curse, but perhaps these changes are a blessing, even though we don't like the way our routine is disrupted.  It is hard to remember sometimes that change can be good and that variety is, indeed, the spice of life. 

I think briefly how different preparation for a ride or other outing is different in the time of COVID.  I have packed a mask and neck gaiter for the anticipated run into stores.  I have brought a snack for the first stop, but did not pack a sandwich for lunch.   I miss the old days. On some rides, like the Willisburg Century, lunch was one of the main attractions. And I miss old friends.  I think of Bill Pustow and how when he rode this century with me, he was so shocked at the lunch town Halloween decorations.  And they were, indeed, sacrilegious, or some of them were.  I continue to wonder if that was the intent or if someone just did not put two and two together.  Regardless, I am glad for the miles we rode together, for his company and the stories he would tell, for the times he made me smile and for the times he made me think.  I don't like changes, but things change, and he no longer rides with the club or with me, but I am glad we had the time we had.  Memories of the many rides we rode as companions lace my memories and will for as long as I can hold my memories tightly.

Before I know it, I am passing Cliff Stream Farms where Jon and I recently rode for lunch and where I took Diana for her birthday lunch, a new favorite not just because of the delicious food but because of outside dining, another COVID change.  It is too early for it to be open, but maintenance is hard at work, the roar of the mower sounding through the morning air, the smell of cut grass perfuming my passing. Again, I give thanks for friends, for how they brighten days and moments of our lives. I decide I will stop for my first break at the bridge nearby, one that I loved from the moment I first laid eyes on it while out exploring these roads. 

At the bridge, I come upon a sign and I am not quite sure what it means, but it sounds as if the bridge may be torn down and replaced, something I have seen happen repeatedly on the roads I ride. What does it mean to "reuse" a bridge?  I don't know the answer to this question. Sometimes the things that appeal to me aesthetically are not really useful for most people. Is utility, should utility, be the main goal, or does/should beauty fit in there somewhere?  Perhaps others find beauty in the new bridges, their structures, their size.  Personally, I gravitate toward the old.  I lean my bike against the railing and eat the homemade peanut butter crackers I have brought as I mull these things over in my mind.

Before I reach Vernon, my destination, I have another unexpected event.  I reach a road that says it is closed as a bridge is out.  Of course, scoff law that I am, at least on a bicycle, I skirt the sign and proceed hoping that the people will not be working and that I will be able to pass.  When I reach the bridge, I see a workman sitting there.  Hoping against hope, I wave and approach telling him I am not from around here and wondered about a work around.  Without my asking, he tells me I can cross through the creek if I don't mind getting a bit wet.  He even offers to carry my bike for me, an offer I refuse but appreciate.  I don't stop to take pictures after crossing as more workmen are coming and I worry he will get in trouble for his kindness in allowing me to pass.  I suppose it has been fueled by lawsuits, but it certainly seems that not many are helpful anymore.  In allowing me to pass, he has saved me what I would estimate to be about five extra miles, not a big deal in summer on a day like today, but a big deal when daylight is less abundant or when the sun is scorching every inch of your skin like a blow torch .   

I love the roads on this ride, particularly the first 65 miles or so. Some are more lanes than roads.  All have tree overhangs shading providing shade that dapples the ground.  Certainly, it makes spotting potholes more difficult, but oh how pleasant it makes the trip.  I realize that Ms. Croggon is right.  Whether it is the bicycle, the scenery, the weather, or a combination of the three, things that trouble me fall behind me on the road.    I think that is one of the things I love most about riding, how often you can leave behind the negative. As usual, I appreciate the deep, rich greenness.  The hot, humid weather has ensured that things have remained green.  In the corn fields, however, I spot the first signs of the coming fall.  Silks are blackening, edges of leaves are hinting of browning. Black Eyed Susans are pretty much gone as are the daisies.  I see the first of the Sumac and think how, when Lloyd was living, I would have told him as they are good honey producers.  Yellow flowers, tall and beautiful, perhaps wild sunflowers but whose name I don't really know, are blooming.  Insects buzz. As I pass wet lands, I hear a frog still pining for a mate.  And because I am not with others, I can sing, loudly and robustly, as I have not been able to for quite a while.

I pick up the pace after lunch finding that my legs feel better than expected.  I have been riding slowly all year, and while I still am not riding quickly, I am riding hard for my fitness level and it feels good.  My lungs start to heave a bit and my thighs ache, but I know I can hold this pace for a long while, pedals churning.  And all too soon it is over and I am home and I wonder why I hurried.  And I wonder if I will ever figure out how to correct the date on my camera;-)  But it is all good.  And this day, a brief respite from the merciless heat that is August,  a brief respite from the things that trouble me, has been a blessing.  Oh, yeah.....bicycles.